The narrator, valiantly began a new chapter, unphased by the cursed sword’s knack for generating dramatic tension. It was clearly very amateurish and short-sighted in this matter (and much less attractive and capable than the narrator). Regardless, we return to the scene that was very rudely interrupted by the ruffian.

“And why is that?” Real Galadhorn’s body asked, the cursed sword throbbed in anticipation of the dramatic tension that was about to unfold from the timely arrival of new scene participants.

Langley Pinkerton, Cleopatra Bingley, Ragnar Son of Mad Titan Uroskyn and the Twelve Harpies arrived just in time to witness a scene they could not believe was unfolding: Galadhorn had his blade pointed towards Zune, while Father Milton had drawn his sword and held it upright above the gathered crowd. The ancient blade of mithril and weaved mana threw a rainbow upon the dusty sunlight of the early morning like a funneled spider’s web covered in the gossamer of dawn and the night’s gentle dew. It permeated a subtle, but ancient power that silenced the earth itself (which had the unfortunate side effect of creating more dramatic tension).

***

Langley, Cleopatra, and Ragnar held their mouths agape at the unbelievable sight. Not the sword, which held an air of sublime on its razor’s edge, but rather the reality of Father Milton wielding it. Never in the years he had lived in Eden had the holy Father stood up for himself, let alone another human being (or kobold, for that matter), and were not even aware that Father Milton held an artifact of such immense power and beauty until just now. In fact, they had assumed he was lying when Father Milton had admitted he had been a war priest at one point.

“Holy shit.” Langley, Cleopatra, and Ragnar said in unison agreement.

“What do we do? Should we hop in?” Cleopatra whispered.

“No. Fucking terrible idea. It’s Galadhorn. You’ve seen what his sword can do.” Langley said.

Ragnar, the wisest and most-Russian-sounding of the trio contemplated the scene for a moment, and then spoke. “No. Kobold will be fine. Galadhorn ego too big. We will have our chance if necessary. But Milton no doubt has plan. Clearly has learned goddess-given lesson and is working towards redemption arc. Dah.”

“What?” Langley and Cleopatra asked. Ragnar shrugged. He knew not everyone was gifted with the innate knowledge of narrative structure. Butterflies rose in his stomach as he realized that some dramatic tension had leaked out of the trio’s short aside and into the main scene, feeding power into Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering.

***

“Or you shall face the fury of Brestmylc, for Brestmylc loathes all evil.” Father Milton spat at the puppeteered body of Real Galadhorn.

Kilter-throatslitter drank in the sweet ambrosia of dramatic tension wafting from the larger full-cast scene, and the brief aside. He wanted more. He wanted so much more! And so, he decided to chew on the scenery, milking the drama for all he could.

The sword forced Galadhorn to swing it at the small, triangular table from the cover, slicing it (and the cactus) in cleanly in half, and splintering the hardwood below.

“And what would you rather I do?” Kilter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering asked.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Father Milton gulped. He was nervous. So nervous. So deliciously nervous. Would the kobold even go for such a plan? He thought to himself, unaware that the cursed sword was only getting more powerful.

“What would you have me do?” The orc’s body bellowed, as it contorted to face the newly-arrived trio.

“Fight you instead?” the body snarled at Langley, Cleopatra, and Ragnar.

***

Guy Blanco. Guide me. Zune prayed. What could he do? He was just a weak kobold. He wanted to quit. There was no hope. This whole idea about a Slightly-Late Show was looking grim. Guy Blanco clearly never had to deal with hostile orcs…or had he?

“I can’t quit.” Zune mumbled. “Quitting is for…”

The name. He could see it in his mind’s eye…sort of. He had spoken it before. When he was low. So wizened by age (by kobold standards), Zune struggled to recall the fateful name he had spoken once. Zune thought and thought and thought, scouring his mind palace for the answer that was on the tip of his tiny kobold tongue. Yes. The interview with [Redacted]! Of course! [Redacted]! (Note: the Burea of Kobold Labor Unions has redacted this name for legal purposes).

“[Redacted]!” Zune yelled, pointing at Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering’s host body.

“What?” Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering asked, the five-foot long cursed bastard sword pulsating with dramatic tension.

The earth quaked with the power of Late Night Television.

“No one is going to fight you. No. I am going to interview you, Real Galadhorn!” Zune said.

***

It was perfect. Oh, so perfect. The pathetic little kobold was playing into my trap like a warrior wielding a cursed blade in a vague search for even more power. I could get so much dramatic tension out of this. I was practically salivating at the thought. O, sweet ambrosia. I agreed.

“I agree, kobold.” I said, squeezing on the tortured soul of Real Galadhorn. “But we’re going to need an audience for this.”

Oh the dramatic tension. Ugh. Yes.

“Okay! Sure! But I could really use some more ratings.” The kobold spoke in its archaic riddles again.

“Of course, it is only fair that I permit you to prepare as well as possible. How can I help you achieve more ratings?” I asked. Oh how delicious it was that this pathetic, small, useless and powerless creature was playing right into my trap. No one could defeat me at my most powerful: chewing the scenery on a stage. And with an audience? He was as good as dead already. It was going to be a victory lap. A delicious, delicious, victory lap.

“By helping me advertise. We’re going to need fliers, and criers, and billboards!” the kobold screeched enthusiastically, unaware he was dooming the pathetic town of Eden with his words. The rest of the useless and weak squabble stood their motionless. Uncertain of themselves.

“Go fucking advertise, or I’ll kill all of you!” I forced the deliciously dramatic through Galadhorn’s strained throat. I was going to eat well tonight. And then, no one would be able to stop me. Not even Brestmylc.

***

Sorry, I have no idea what just happened there. As the scared I’mos and the newly-arrived trio broke out into groups to advertise The Slightly-Late Show with Zune Tee-em, a smile crept across Father Milton’s face. Galadhorn had taken the bait. It was in Zune’s hands now. Thank you, Brestmylc.

Zune, none-the-wiser to Father Milton’s machinations, held up his ratbag full of rats and his Zune™. He couldn’t let free advertising labor go unpaid, so he offered the highest payment a kobold could offer.

“I have rats, if anyone would like a snack before they go.”

Everyone was very happy with the food they had already eaten that day, much to Zune’s surprise. He gave a silent prayer to Guy Blanco, who had no doubt bestowed upon Zune the gift of advertisers, an audience, and permission to eat the rest of the rats in his ratbag full of rats.